Concurring Hands Divide Flax For Damask That

In A Poem The Words Should Be As Pleasing To The Ear As The Meaning Is To The Mind.

The Irish Say Your Trouble Is Their Trouble And Your Joy Their Joy? I Wish I Could Believe It; I Am Troubled, I'm Dissatisfied, I'm Irish.

What Is Our Innocence, What Is Our Guilt? All Are Naked, None Is Safe.

Your Thorns Are The Best Part Of You.

We Don't Like Flowers That Do Not Wilt; They Must Die, And Nine She-camel Hairs Aid Memory.